


Persuasion

by Valmouth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Consequences, Elrond Tries, Elves and Dwarves, Gen, M/M, Mild slash, One-Sided Attraction, Persuasion - Freeform, hinted Thorin/ Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Valmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite appearances Elrond finds himself liking the heir to Erebor, and when his suspicions prove correct, as he has always known they would, he is genuinely concerned for the safety of these rough dwarves and their much admired King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persuasion

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer : I own no rights to these two characters, or to the creative universes they are derived from. I mean no offence by posting and make no money from it.

He finds his eyes travel back to the small sturdy figure.

Long has it been since Dwarves came willingly to the valley but here is one he has heard of in story and legend – the King without a Kingdom; the heir of Erebor. The Prince who was his grandfather’s herald, and then led his warriors in battle with nothing more than an oak branch to shield him.

Thorin Oakenshield is, to Elrond’s intrigued eye, very much as he had expected. In temperament at least.

He has seen so little eye-to-eye with Thranduil, and the majesty of the King of the Silvan Elves has ever been too cold for his own warmth, but he remembers a conversation a century and a half ago when he overheard an unwise guard whisper that the King of the Greenwood had found more than the Arkenstone to admire beneath the Mountain.

He understands the words now. Dwarves are not unattractive but they are earthy folk and their rough skin and hair is the inheritance of their race, as length of limb and deceptive fragility is the inheritance of his own.

But perhaps that is the attraction.

He has ever been apart from his kin by the mixed blood in his veins. Peredhil, Half-Elven; and the Dwarves with their blunt ways and loud voices have mortality in common with Men.

They sweat like Men, and step heavily like Men. They work with determination more than grace and by the nature of their beings Dwarves work in trades that require strong hands, keen eyes and effort, and nothing, nothing, has the ease of time and sweet growth of knowledge that is the lot of the elves.

He feels time sometimes press down on his shoulders. He sees the signs of years passing in his own face, in the deepened lines beside his eyes and the sharpening of his bones beneath skin. Few enough to denote the centuries he has lived, the wisdom he has gained; barely enough to speak of the horrors he has seen, and the glories.

Thorin, on the other hand, Thorin shows his life in his body. His hands are scarred, weathered where he grips his glass. His sharp eyes glower, thin lines on his brow speaking to fierce concentration and systematic worry. The shape of his face holds no youth, though Elrond can see what may once have drawn the attention of an Elvenking.

He does not, however, dare to presume an understanding of Thranduil’s relationship with Thorin. He believes Thorin would appreciate it even less than Thranduil.

These things are not always sordid. An appreciation is all it need have been, without any personal enjoyment or desire. A regard befitting a fine work of art. Or of nature.

For himself, he smiles to imagine this dwarf lord willing to acquiesce to a shared night behind closed doors with an elf.

Elrond is ever introspective, and he sifts his interest for gems of self-knowledge with an obsessive hand.

For the most part he finds that Thorin Oakenshield annoys him, frustrates him, intrigues him, and he will not be sorry to see him go - except.

Ah, yes; the exception.

For the clear distrust he faces, his heart is tugged in sympathy.

His home is a haven, a refuge for those who need aid and advice, but Thorin stands in Imladris as though he expects to be arrested and stripped of his weapons. Perhaps even his honour, his dignity. It leads Elrond to wonder if such has happened before. His kin do not like dwarves, and Men can be thoughtlessly cruel.

A displaced Prince with an unguarded tongue and fire in his blood is a draw for mockery, for ire.

And Thorin does not make himself agreeable.

Amusingly enough he is like an elfling growing to maturity, asserting his independence while expecting no one else to respect him for it. A tragedy for a dwarf of Thorin’s years. Then again, in elf years, Thorin’s age makes him a child still.

It is the thought of that which makes a small part of Elrond look indulgently upon his guest’s dark glower. Dismisses it even though he does not humble himself before it. He has his own pride, and Thorin’s evident desire to sling crude insults is not one he likes to encourage.

But he watches, and the odd combination of aged appearance and youthful sulking pulls smiles out of him that he has not worn in many years.

It scandalises the people of his household. Mithrandir takes a strategic step back. The other dwarves bristle in defence of their leader, though he suspects they do not yet know why. As for Thorin, he understands all too well and his rage only grows at being patronised like a child of inadequate summers.

Which only increases Elrond’s suddenly mischievous enjoyment.

Despite appearances he finds himself liking the heir to Erebor and when his suspicions prove correct, as he has always known they would, he is genuinely concerned for the safety of these rough dwarves and their admired King.

Thorin will, naturally enough, not listen to him. He would expect nothing else from either a child or a warrior king. Children make their own mistakes and warrior kings all too often follow their own council.

Yet he cannot find the heart in himself to let this foolish quest proceed without one last attempt at making the dwarf see sense.

He waits until the others have retreated to the rooms Erestor has arranged for them. Thorin is a dwarf and a warrior king, not a courtier, but he is also not stupid. He notices the intent glance lingering upon his profile, his shoulders, and he levels a hawk-like frown of wary concentration at Elrond before discreetly hanging back.

Then, when they are alone, he folds his arms across his barrel chest.

Elrond suppresses yet another smile by reason of his concern. “Your honour does you credit, Thorin Oakenshield, but only you can decide if the price of this quest may not be too high for you to pay. A dragon is no small feat.”

“Am I to wait, then, to reclaim the home of my people?” Thorin demands, “And if I must, how long? And for whom? Will you give me elvish soldiers and weapons to slay the dragon?”

When he receives no answer he lowers his head, glaring from beneath his brows, eyes fierce. “I thought not. Elves have ever served their own interests alone. The only time you would act is when it threatens your own home.”

Elrond arches his brows. “Would you act differently if the dragon had come to the Greenwood instead of Erebor?”

Thorin’s fists clench by his sides. “We would have honoured our alliance.”

“Then you would have held your lives too cheap.”

The growl of rage is expected. The aborted offer of violence is not.

Elrond sets his lips sternly. “You would do well to consider that even dwarves cannot live on gold alone, nor honour. A warrior’s code is a fine trait but it blinds you to the very real needs of your people. Should you succeed, you will need diplomacy in your court.”

“I speak plain but true.”

“Truth is not made of harsh words and prejudice.”

“You, an elf, talk to me of prejudice,” Thorin spits.

Elrond’s lips curve in spite of himself, but the trace of the smile he bestows on Thorin is not good humoured. It is not, he feels, a very nice one.

It is the smile he once wore on the battlefields of Barad-dur.

And it garners some respect in his guest. Who bristles but then subsides, glower smoothing to mere weary frustration.

“What would you have me do?” Thorin asks.

In gentler tones, the dwarf’s voice is rich and mellow. A fine singing voice, Elrond thinks, and the dwarves have ever been musical in their own fashion. Though he would prefer it if they would not demonstrate this skill while dancing on his tables.

“I would have Middle Earth safe,” he replies.

“And so you hide yourself away to do it. Here, where the danger cannot touch you,” Thorin sneers, glancing at the quiet beauty of Imladris with unseeing eyes.

Elrond stiffens. “I have faced enough of the danger beyond my lands. You cannot know the half of it.”

“Can’t I,” Thorin states flatly.

Elrond goes silent, and looks past the discourtesy and arrogance. Thorin’s eyes are blue and hot, his hair like ink in the shadows of the night, but the streaks of grey at his temples are suddenly silver in the moonlight and Elrond is moved to unwilling and somewhat grudging pity. Yet again.

He relaxes his frown. “You have seen war,” he accepts, “You have seen poverty and sorrow, but you have not yet stood your ground against the destruction of everything you have ever known.”

“What else would you call a dragon’s attack on my home?”

“I would call it great tragedy,” Elrond says, “But you fail to consider the consequences of your actions.”

“Either I will succeed or I will not. I may die or I may not.”

“Your companions face that same fate. You doom them as surely as you doom yourself.”

“I called and they answered,” Thorin growls. “They chose their fates.”

“They chose their leader. You choose their fates. That danger too I have faced, beyond my lands and in them.”

“You have never led your people through a world that wants no part of them. With doors slammed in your face when you asked for work just to put food on your table and a roof over your head.”

Thorin’s eyes are bright, turned up to watch him as they are, and his expression is guarded but as easy to read as though his thoughts were scripted in black ink on paper.

Elrond looks down in brief consternation.

“The lives of you and your people have been hard. I do not deny that. But you still fail to see the true consequences of your actions. You may find the price of failure is not worth the cost of effort.”

“As I said, I am prepared to die.”

“Not for you,” Elrond corrected gently, “For those who still live in the East, and for your companions.”

Thorin stares at him, and then shakes his head. “You have led warriors into battle. Did you tell them they could turn around and go home to hide under the beds? Or did you demand courage from them, and make any promises you could knowing many of them would never live to see you fail to keep them?”

Unbidden he thinks again of the Alliance of Men and Elves, and he thinks of war before that, and war still to come, and the lives he still loses to orcs and trolls and wargs and brigands.

“You have led warriors. If they stand with you,” Thorin points out, “You don’t insult them by sending them away.”

“If you were leading warriors, I would agree. You have children in your troop, and a hobbit whose only experience of a blade is the knife he uses in the kitchen.”

“And so I ask you again – will you give me elvish soldiers and weapons? If you will not, then we have nothing further to say.”

“Is there nothing you can think of but your pride and lost privilege?” Elrond asks.

He expects to see Thorin’s face twist in fury. He expects his accusation to meet violence. He does not expect Thorin to flinch.

“It is neither pride nor greed that takes me back to Erebor,” he replies.

There is no mistaking Thorin’s step backwards, nor yet his back turned resolutely to end the conversation. There is certainly no mistaking his intent to return to his people, and his quest, with his mind yet unchanged.

And Elrond’s hand lifts on impulse. “Wait,” he hears himself say, and surprises himself more than Thorin, who just looks back at him over his shoulder with impatience.

“What more is there to say?” Thorin demands.

In truth, there is nothing more he should say. Elrond reflects ruefully on the fact that this discussion has gone as well as he expected. The dwarf has not actually threatened to decapitate him yet but clearly the night is yet young.

“You may be prepared for certain death,” Elrond says heavily, and he puts the last of his fight into the words, “You and your companions, but the dragon will not stop at thirteen dwarves and a hobbit.”

“No,” Thorin agrees ironically, “Since you’ve forgotten the wizard.”

Elrond drops his hand.

Thorin sighs. Then he turns and folds his arms again, the fur of his coat catching the fall of his hair in curling tendrils. “I am old,” he says carefully, “I cannot wait any longer for aid that will not come.”

Once more Thorin falls silent, and looks out upon the quiet beauty of Imladris beneath the night sky, but he lingers where he stands and Elrond takes his sympathy in both hands for one final attempt.

“My valley may be hidden but I am not. All who seek my aid find me.”

“I did not seek your aid,” Thorin says, as if goaded.

Elrond raises his brows in pointed silence.

Thorin drops his own gaze in concession but he is nothing if not stubborn, and he lifts his head again in proud defiance the very next moment. The moment of quiet contemplation seems to be broken.

“I am grateful for your hospitality,” he says stiffly, and then ruins it when he adds, “Such as it has been.”

Elrond takes a moment to grapple with the conflicting emotions of amusement and irritation. It has been some time since he has felt so much of both for one single, solitary being. Amusement wins, if only because he is vindictively aware that it will annoy Thorin more than being sworn at.

“My hospitality extends to the ruin your companions are no doubt making of a wing of my house,” he points out ironically.

For a moment alarm flits across Thorin’s face for just long enough to displace the displeased frown, but then the frown returns. “If we have disturbed anything we will pay for it.”

“With,” Elrond says ironically, “Such funds as you have.”

Thorin’s fists clench on thin air, as though to crush an elf’s neck in them.

Elrond sighs. “Peace, Thorin, son of Thrain,” he says at last, and holds up a hand to show his willingness to truce, “Before the conversation degenerates further. I ask only that you reconsider the path you take from here. Think on all that I have said.”

Thorin glares at him.

Elrond inclines his head ruefully. “Most,” he amends agreeably, “That I have said.”

Elrond is now the one who turns on his heel, who begins to leave the conversation that he is sure has ended. Galadriel is present in his land, and while her power brushes with gentle pressure against his conscious thought, he has better control than most at keeping her from sensing what lies in his mind and his heart.

It’s a power that comes in very useful when he is recalled imperiously to the scene he is leaving in his turn.

Thorin looks peevish, and not a little restless, but though he stands there and demands attention, he seems genuinely desirous of Elrond’s return.

He swallows visibly. “As to any damage,” he says carefully, “We may possibly leave in your home, I will bear responsibility. My company are not… used to elvish ways.”

Elrond watches his discomfort. “Am I to suppose that you are?”

Thorin’s jaw tightens and then eases. “I once visited the Greenwood.”

There are questions that present themselves with such a small, artless revelation. Questions of what has gone before, and what is likely to come after. Questions of what was likely to have transpired, that led an unwary guard to whisper rumours and innuendo.

He has heard that dwarves love only once in a lifetime, but he wonders if Thorin knows that elves love only where they desire, and desire only once. In this as well he has been apart from his people. The human blood in his veins burns hotter in some times, and for some people, and he has loved not once but several times in his lifetime.

“Their ways are still different from ours,” Elrond remarks mildly.

“And both are not our ways,” Thorin returns decisively.

“So I am led to believe,” Elrond agrees.

Unexpectedly Thorin shakes his head. “Your seneschal seems to believe we are elves, only shorter.”

Elrond cannot help the twitch of his lips. Lindir has spent the better part of the last four days looking harried and uncomprehending. It is, he feels, quite an astute observation on Thorin’s part.

“He has never encountered your customs before and knows only ours.”

“Dwarves do not visit this valley.”

“You would not,” Elrond points out, “Had Mithrandir not brought you.”

“Yes, with trickery.”

“Trickery that has been to your advantage.”

“You would unsay your words if you could,” Thorin remarks, gaze knowing.

Elrond allows the smallest gesture of his head and shoulders to denote dismissal. He would, if it were possible, but he has found that there is never any use in regret. He will fail and fall and falter as the seasons change.

“That alone would not deter you from your quest.”

“Neither will this conversation.” Once more Thorin folds his arms against his chest, brows pulling together as a frown of concentration creases his brow. “Do you think I have not thought these things before?”

“I believe you do not have the ice in your heart to see the destruction you will bring upon the East. Erebor was not the only kingdom to fall that fateful day.”

“The dragon never turned his gaze on the Greenwood.”

It is Elrond’s turn to frown. “But he did destroy Dale. The Men of Dale were also forced to flee. Their children too were driven from their homes. Girion of Dale fell in defence of his city and yours.”

“As it was his contract to do.”

“Contracts are not death warrants.”

Thorin’s expression does not change.

He wonders if there is already madness in Thorin’s mind; his desperation is so very clear even in the half-dark. His paranoia alone speaks to an uneasy heart. With such signs displayed he feels the prickle of foreboding chill his skin beneath his robes.

“Had his aim been true that day our lives would have been different. My father would wear a crown upon his head, my brother would have lived to come of age. My sister’s sons would not be trade guards hired by petty merchants.”

He cannot fault him for his sorrow or his broken heart. He cannot blame him for wanting more for those he loves. But Elrond hears something in the words that sinks his heavy heart even further in his chest. More specifically, he does not hear something.

“You do not mention your people or your allies,” he comments.

Thorin startles, eyes widen for a moment before mutinously looking aside. “My people would not have died, and of those who did we could have buried them in the rock of their home. As is our custom.”

“And Dale – had Girion given his life and succeeded in bringing Smaug down from the sky, would your grandfather have rebuilt Dale? Would the coffers of Erebor have paid for the ruined lives of the Men?”

“Dare you say that we would not have kept our word!” Thorin snarls, immediately angry.

His hand is on the grip of his sword, and Elrond has expected this for so long in their conversation that he is not surprised. The sight relieves him, in a way, for it removes his guest from that state of vulnerability that brings long suppressed instincts to the surface.

Still, he knows none of his emotion shows in his calm demeanour. His voice is steady and bracing when he counters – “I say nothing of the kind. I merely ask you to consider what an alternative future can hold. There is no world on Arda in which perfection is possible. Sadness and violence will always find its footholds in peace and happiness.”

Thorin’s hand clenches on his sword hilt and then drops away. “At times violence must be done to make peace. Even an elf should know this.”

“I know I have seen enough death and misery to last me the rest of my years.”

Thorin shifts position, walking to the railing before returning. A sign of restlessness, Elrond surmises, and possibly more to do with his uneasy heart than his toil-hardened body.

He waits patiently, hands clasped before him and head slightly bowed, gaze turned down to the dwarf pacing back and forth in front of him. He has often found silence to be a healing tool, a quiet offering of sympathy that opens the door to so many courses of action.

He knows silence in Lothlorien to be watchful and enigmatic, and in the Greenwood to be ominous and deadly.

Silence in Thranduil’s realm means the absence of bird song and the stillness of wind among the rustling leaves. It means a predator stalking its prey.

Here, in Rivendell, such darkness is not yet come upon them. The fords of the Bruinen sluice away the cares of the outside world, and the mountains curl protectively around the Last Homely House. The sunlight is dappled and the breezes are mild and sweet with the scent of green growing things. He has worked hard and long to preserve such peace for his people.

“You could imprison us,” Thorin says suddenly, “You could take our weapons and our ponies; post guards at our door.”

Elrond feels his mouth thin with distaste. “There are no dungeons in my home. Nor do I set my guards on guests. You will stay or go as you please; I ask only that you reconsider the direction in which you depart.”

“You ask that I return to the Ered Luin, and hide my tail between my legs like a whipped dog.”

“There is no shame in letting go of your anger and thirst for vengeance.”

“There is shame if I can do something to avenge my people and do nothing.”

Galadriel’s subtle presence becomes a seeking press. Never more than he can withstand, for her absolute control over her power is awe-inspiring, but she is here, and she seeks him out curiously.

Thorin stands before him defiant as ever, and though Elrond sees the doubts and damage lurking all too clearly behind the stone of his gaze, there is nothing more that he can do when the King Without A Kingdom is blind to the wisdom he has tried to impart.

Thorin will do as he will do, and Elrond will watch from the shadows of his hidden valley.

Perhaps he thinks, and draws hope from the few crevices of his heart that hold it, perhaps Thorin will succeed. Perhaps the Company will be victorious and there will be no death and no destruction. Perhaps the East will not burn in dragon fire.

Even in his hopefulness, he knows this is unlikely. Death and misery will always find their footholds, and violence will always bring sadness in its wake, no matter how righteous and necessary.

Gandalf finds them there, locked in silent contemplation of each other, but his appearance startles Thorin into taking a step back.

Towards a defensible corner, Elrond notes, and feels tiredness creep into his bones.

Gandalf takes the dwarf aside and Thorin’s face is expressionless, his eyes bright beneath the stars before he inclines his head regally in understanding.

“I wish you good night,” Thorin says abruptly.

“We shall speak more tomorrow,” Elrond says.

It is a mechanical phrase, and one he uses with guests who are troubled in their minds.

Thorin’s stillness catches him off-guard before he is granted a nod.

“As you wish,” is all Thorin actually says.

Elrond glances an enquiry at Gandalf, who dissembles with a silent gesture of incomprehension, and it is not important for the rest of the night. Galadriel is here, and Saruman, and there is a conversation they need to have with Mithrandir.

For if he cannot appeal to Thorin’s reason, perhaps the others who guard their hard-won, watchful peace will have better results. Perhaps Mithrandir can be persuaded, and perhaps Galadriel will work her magic on Thorin’s heart where he was unable.

Lindir brings him news of the dwarves’ flight and he feels himself fade from the rest of the story.

There will be no more tomorrows.  

 


End file.
